Nightside - Collaborative Project

Finally, we return to Nightside – this setting has been a fun playground for me, and it’s been fun to share it with other community members. This blog post will capture all of the submissions I got for the Nightside collaborative project – and I will update this post with new art, pictures, submissions as they come in. Feel free to jump into this setting and contribute!

Let’s set the stage with the original prompt:

Miller's World // Nightside

Miller's World, more commonly known as Nightside, is a tidally locked planet on the fringes of the galactic cluster. One side bakes under the relentless bombardment of solar radiation, and the other side stares endlessly into the void. The powerful heat creates air currents that force all moisture over the dark side of the planet where it falls as heavy rain, creating a massive bioluminescent rainforest. The warm air currents also keep the dark side of the planet from freezing - as the majority of the dark side is quite temperate.

Indeed, there is a buffer strip around the center of the planet that enjoys relative stability of temperature and light. This strip was once inhabited by an elite imperial garrison, as the world was strategically relevant for hundreds of years. The garrison has gone now, leaving abandoned buildings, equipment, and technology. The Nightsiders avoid these old habitations, understanding them to be cursed or haunted. Though many do still salvage in these ruins for useful remains.

The people of Nightside, if you can call them that, are not a homogeneous or unified group. They are from a range of hominid groups that have interbred for generations. Their original descendants were prisoners of the imperial forces, who were left on the world when the military disembarked. They now make their homes in small tribal networks throughout the luminous jungles of phosphorescent fungi and the shadows between them.

Occasionally, ships passing through the system will stop on Nightside for supplies, as there is an abundance of water and biofuel in the lush fungal forests. These ships return with strange stories about bartering with mutants in ancient imperial wargear, or of witnessing cultic rituals by firelight. Some ships land on Nightside and are never heard from again. Largely, this planet is forgotten by most in the galaxy, and whatever strange life and culture exist there, it has existed practically undisturbed for a millennia.

Durzin

Andarprimulon / Spooky Andrew

Hobby Dungeon

ApostateMakes

"You cannot kill me in a way that matters."

Sarah Menemtex, third clade city guard, woke up sweating for the second night in a row. She lay in the dark, trying to slow her shaky breaths into the guard breathing rites. Her room no longer felt small and cozy and safe. It felt cramped. She kicked her feet out of bed and stepped onto the cold stone floor of the guard-temple. The cool of the room reminded her too much of the sewers where-

Sarah Menemtex, third clade city guard, stood on the guard-temple balcony, her armour and ceremonial plumage in disarray. The haste she'd thrown it on with had been unworthy of her station, but the warmth of the jungle was better than the coolness of her room. Even if the humidity reminded her too much of the sewers where-

Sarah Menemtex, third clade city guard, walked the streets on a hurriedly registered irregular patrol. Her feet took her along familiar paths while her mind tried to pull away. The people of the temple and the soulless barbarians mixed together in familiar chatter and bustle, bumping into her rarely and apologetically. None of them were glued to a wall and puppeted by-

Sarah Menemtex, third clade city guard, sat on the wall and stared out at the bog formed by the city's effluence, a redirected portion of the river that flushed (was supposed to flush) the streets and sewers clean and fertilize the bog's chattel-crops. Sarah didn't know how it worked (was supposed to work); she was a city guard of the grandest city in the world, and her role was to defend the city from threats inside and out. Her duty was to defend the city. Her calling, her purpose, her life was meant to defend the city. Her hands were shaking. She couldn't close her eyes and rub them because then she would see-

***

Her gloved hands gripped her spear so tightly the leather squeaked. Merkus wasn't doing better to her left; she could hear his teeth chattering. Guard-commander Assydov stood between them and the thing they'd found, even though she could smell piss from him. He cleared his throat.

"Leave this city, foul creature," he said. "Remove yourself from this person of the temple and return to the jungle."

The face of Mender Shoeford, glistening with something that wasn't sweat, rose from where he hung, crucified or embedded or melted against a stone wall. Something that wasn't kind old Mender looked out of the holes where Mender's eyes used to be and opened the mouth that wasn't Mender's any more.

"Fleshbeast-food," it said, in something like Mender's voice, but without his tongue. Its mouth gaped open and something else made noise from it. "You threaten your better."

Sarah could hear Assydov gulp. "None are better than the people of the temple," he recited, "and it is our duty to protect them. You will leave, or I will kill you."

Not-Mender hung motionless for a time before it responded. "You cannot kill me in a way that matters." And then it coughed. And the spore-cloud hit Assydov in the face, and he made a noise. An animal noise, high-pitched in terror and pain, until it began to dissolve into a hacking burble, and then his body fell to the filthy ground and began to swell and twitch like a grain-bag full of rats. Sarah took a step back.

Merkus took a step forward. Two months older than her and braver by far- and more foolish. He charged, and thrust with his spear, and pierced not-Mender through the heart. Not-Mender did not react, except to breathe in.

Sarah turned and ran as fast as she could. She heard Markus scream, and burble, and fall silent, while she ran.

***

Guard-general Taer heard her report, asked her questions, and ordered her back to duty two days ago. There had been no punishment. There had been no commendation. There had been no assignment. She was a guard as she had always been. She would never be as she had been.

Sarah Menemtex, third clade city guard, sat on the wall and stared out at the jungle as something lurched out of the sewers, aflame and whistling. Blasts of flame followed it. Sarah looked down, uncomprehending, as the thing splashed itself across the bog. There was a faint clank beneath her and temple-guards spilled out of the sewer, carrying sacred tools and bearing the colours of the high temples. They tried to chase the thing, but their legs sank into the bog and they managed, at best, a clumsy wade as the thing splashed and rolled and bonelessly squirted itself toward the jungle.

As, Sarah suddenly realized, the thing escaped into the jungle. It paused at the edge of the bog, in the shade of the jum-jum trees. It didn't turn back- it didn't have a front to turn. But it looked like it paused and considered the city. And, just before it plunged into the jungle, Sarah heard it say "you cannot kill me in a way that matters."

She tangled her feet in her spear and realized she'd grabbed it and tried to lunge off the wall only when she impacted the railing with at least two of her teeth. The sharp pain brought her back and she realized she was trembling again- with rage. Her shaking hand gripped her spear. Clarity descended and she knew what she was, now.

***

What most people call Rangers are barely a coalition. They share information and occasionally cooperate, but they have no organization. They receive support from cities and villages that they pass through, but they take no apprentices and they collect and pay no taxes. They are barely connected to the civilizations they pass through at all. All of them are consumed by a sort of existential rage against one or another of the horrors the jungle occasionally burps up, in a rare response to the terrible otherness those horrors usually demonstrate. The ones who survive their hunts are expert survivors in the wild; trackers, hunters, keenly aware of the strengths and weaknesses of some particular danger and what surrounds it. They can sometimes be hired as guides, if they need money for tools and supplies, and can usually be hired as exterminators, but they so rarely make contact with other people that waiting for one to show up is a fool's errand. Their skills are very rarely turned against civilized inhabitants, but their rage and their battle-tested skills are extremely lethal in those cases. They almost all die young.

Caffeinated Miniatures

Ashlava / Ashley Morgan

Monster's in the Ruins

CW: Blood, gore, violence, body horror

Nyxie the Outcast heaved their bag onto their shoulders and let out an exasperated sigh. Once more unto the breach. In this case, it was a literal breach. The southern wall to this old Imperial outpost had collapsed enough to be able to climb over, circumnavigating the only gate. The engineering of this outpost was interesting. Despite being abandoned for decades, maybe even centuries, the gate stood firm and the old defense system around it worked fine, shooting at any who dared approach. The walls were less secure. They were a crumbled mess, barely able to stand tall and be a barrier for any adventurous explorers and scavengers that came their way. Luckily for Nyxie, not many did come this way. The outpost was not on many charts and few knew of its existence. Nyxie had stumbled across it one day while roaming and a few thrown rocks later, created an entrance for themself at that south wall.

With their bag now firmly over their shoulders and strapped to their back, Nyxie began the climb. They knew the path well, where the weak spots were on the rusted metal plates that once made up the wall. There were still creaks and groans as they moved, the stress of the weight of a moving object shifting the materials as they went. As this was Nyxie's third trip into the outpost, it did not take long for them to drop down on the other side of the wall safely.

They landed in a crouch, their haunches absorbing the impact energy as their paws hit the ground. They stand up, soft pointed ears remaining alert for any possible danger. There was a light breeze sweeping through the outpost, creating a slight chill that caused Nyxie's fur to stand up on its ends. They sniffed the air and could find no scent of peril. They clutched the strap of their bag with their fox-like right hand and made their way towards the second-closest building, one they had yet to investigate, walking with confidence and purpose.

They slowed their approach as they closed on the front entrance. Their eyes scanned the building, looking for any signs of either defences or another route in. It was not unknown for these buildings to be like the main gate of the outpost; having their ancient defences still operational and ready to blast all as intruders. A quick look at the outdoor ceiling above the door revealed two panels that could open, most likely containing weapons of some kind, or perhaps gas. Either way, the door was not an option. Thankfully, Nyxie saw a vent off to the side. It was small and the bag would have to stay outside, at least until the door could be opened safely.

Nyxie moved with caution over to the vent. They set their bag down with care and opened it up to retrieve a screwdriver. Working quickly, they set about taking the grate off, removing the screws and throwing the grate to the side. Crouching down, they peer into the stagnant darkness. They gently put the screwdriver back in the bag and take a torch, shining it down the long tube, once again checking for danger. Satisfied, they pocket the torch in their overalls and grab a few small tools from the bag and squeeze into the shaft. They steady themself with their right arm as their body contorts to fit into the small space. The cracking of bones echoes into the building as Nyxie's body realigns to the gap, their skeleton and organs shifting within their skin. Once they were comfortable, they slither their tentacle of a left arm forwards and begin to drag themself in. Forwards. Slither. Pull. Repeat.

It takes a few minutes before Nyxie reaches another grate, this one inside the building. They give it a cursory glance before twisting themself around. More cracking and snapping of bone. They position their legs in front of them and kick out with their right leg. The paw hits the grate with a loud thud and flies into the corridor near the entrance. Nyxie holds still, listening out for any whirring of motors that would indicate a weapon coming online. Satisfied there was no risk of being obliterated, they slid out of the vent shaft. They get back upright on two legs. Cracking and snapping yet again. The silence in the hallway was unnerving. These ancient ruins always had that disquiet vibe to them. A stillness cut with the perpetual fear that every single step taken could be the last. And despite the years of experience delving deep into these places, Nyxie always felt that lingering anxiety. They took a moment to steady their breathing, noticing it had become rapid. Deep breath in. Hold. Slow exhale. Relax.

Once calm had been restored, the scavver made their way to the door. A panel flickered with minimal power. It was impressive that it had any power at all. A testament to the engineering prowess of those who built the place. Resting their tentacled arm against the wall, Nyxie hits a few of the buttons on the panel. A click can be heard from the door and it begins to open just a little. A creak, a booming sound from somewhere, then scraping as it struggles to slide to the left. It doesn't open fully, but leaves enough of a gap for Nyxie to easily move through.

Another quick check to make sure there is no impending death, and they slip back outside. As they grab their bag, there is a sound. Not a good sound. A whirring sound. A mechanical sound. Motors. Nyxie rushes back to the open door and throws the bag inside, grimacing as they do so. The two panels on the ceiling descend, two guns powering up and getting ready to create a pile of ash and goo. The scavver dives into the building as both guns fire, narrowly missing them with the opening salvo. The next shots were erratic, one turret firing into the open door but the other turning and firing at the main courtyard of the outpost. Each turret then fires chaotically, aiming at nothing and everywhere. Suddenly they stop firing and the lights on the panel next to the door die. No power.

"Mey'la," Nyxie swears as they realize the probable issues that could mean in this delve. "At least any other weapons won't be powered. Hopefully."

They stood up, blowing the side-parted long white and blue hair away from their face, and walked over to the bag to inspect the contents. Nothing seemed broken at least. Doing the bag up, Nyxie swung it back over their shoulder, sliding their left appendage through the straps. They turned and started walking down the corridor to explore the remains of this place.

The building was a labyrinth, the hallways weaving around and leading nowhere. Nyxie's predator eyes quickly grew accustomed to the darkness but could not see any rooms or doorways that would at least indicate the corridors served a purpose. Eventually though, they did come across some stairs that went both up and down. They paused, deciding which path to take. Not knowing this building particularly well, Nyxie decided on what they thought would be the safer choice: going up. At least then they could escape more easily out of a window if needed.

Climbing up the stairs felt like a slog. This place hadn't been touched by a sapient person in a very long time and the air was stale, even after the door was opened. Nyxie found breathing more difficult with each step. Growing suspicious, they grab the respirator hanging off the side of their bag and place it over their short snout. Clicking the mask's activator, their lungs are filled with proper air again, the right mixture. Taking a moment to breathe, they hurriedly climb the stairs and onto the second level.

This floor was a possible treasure trove of goodies. There were actual doors that opened up into actual rooms. Debris was everywhere. At least some of the detritus laying around would have some value to someone, somewhere. The irony of Nyxie being valued more when they had old trash to sell and trade with people was not lost on them. Still, it was survival, despite what others thought about them.

Looking around, Nyxie started picking things up. Wires, circuit boards that probably would never work, trinkets of all kinds. There was always someone willing to pay a premium for this stuff. Philosophers and scientists loved to get their hands on items of knowledge, ancient books and data rods and the like. The superstitious folk took just about any bauble and incorporate it into worship. Even the paperweight that Nyxie had just thrown into their bag would be some item of reverence for someone.

Nyxie continued to go room to room, scooping up any object of perceived value. They walked towards a room that looked to be above where the door into the building was. Like all the rooms, the windows had metal shutters over them, but these windows were bigger and more regal looking. A spot for someone of importance to look out into the outpost. There was a desk of some kind in front of the windows. A supervisor's desk. Nyxie smiled.

"Jackpot. Gotta be something good in there."

They walked around the desk, examining every surface. They scanned the room thoroughly too, looking for any hidden traps that might go off if the desk was interfered with without the owner's permission. Nothing was apparent, but Nyxie wanted to be certain. They turned around and drew their tentacles arm back before letting out a snarl and swinging it hard at the windows. There was a smashing of glass before a crunching of metal as they forced the shutter off their hinges and away from the building. Sunlight floods the room, allowing Nyxie a better look around.

Seeing nothing that could kill them, they look at the desk for any compartment. There was a locked door, not strong like a safe. It was a shame it wasn't a safe, Nyxie loved to break into things like that. They reached down with the left arms and wrapped it around the door handle and in a single pull ripped it off and cast it aside. There were some notes bound together and nothing else. Nyxie shrugged and grabbed them carefully, placing it into their bag, which was starting to get heavy. With a last glance at the room, they went through the gaping hole they made in the window and jumped down, landing again on their paws. They stood up and began to walk back to their camp.

The trek was a long one. Nyxie purposely made camp far away from their salvage sites. This ensured that no ambushers and thieves could track them easily and take the loot. Very few tried, admittedly. Being seen as a monster by those both in their community and by strangers helped with personal security. The last person who tried ended up with a life cut short when Nyxie hurled them off a cliff like they were nothing. Mutations did have an upside, even if their particular changes were partly why they were considered a monster and outcast despite many others having mutations.

After a few hours of hiking, Nyxie approached their camp, back in the Nightside. They stopped before actually entering it and sniffed the air. Their ears pricked up as they heard a cracking of a twig being stepped on. They put their hand on their weapon. A gun taken from an older salvage site, a relic left by the Imperials. A weapon that was of great use in situations like this.

"Come out, Shri. I know you are there, you vish'kola. Come to try and steal my haul? Or just here for a friendly chat? I know you too well to believe it is the latter."

An older man stepped out. His blue skin radiated a little in the darkness as he tried to make himself taller and more imposing over Nyxie. They were unaffected by his attempt to intimidate them. He was just another mey'la kashtu to them, another bully in a long line of bullies.

"Hand it over, Outcast. You know what I want. Besides your erasure from existence, I mean."

Shri held out a clawed hand. Nyxie looked down at it and growled. Shri responded by bringing up his weapon, a small primitive crossbow, and aiming it at them. Nyxie dropped the bag and began to contort again, twisting and turning their body until they were barely recognizable. The now-feral creature leaped at Shri, who managed to get a shot off in time. The bolt stuck Nyxie with a dull thud, but they completely ignored it. It was like a leaf being gently blown against their skin.

Shri, on the other hand, felt the full impact of Nyxie slamming into him and fell back onto the ground. The creature did not hesitate to claw at him and beat him, shreds of skin and splatters of blood decorating the forest around them. His screams echoed through the canopy as they went ignored by the monster flaying him alive. Quickly though, his organs replaced skin and muscle, as they went flying as well. A meal for other creatures perhaps, a blood offering to the forest. And soon, their prey was dead and nothing more than a gory mess.

The monster breathed heavily, viscera covering it as a calm began to wash over it. It let out a scream, an unnatural sound even for Nightside. It started to claw at its own skin, ripping it away and discarding it as it tried to crawl back to its bag and the safety of the camp. Fur blew off, loosened in the process, and the creature shifted again with the sickening sounds of bones moving.

They pick themself up, their body still righting itself, and grab their bag. The forest would take the body of Shri soon enough. Nyxie simply walked back to their camp and made preparations to return to town. Their were plenty of buyers for their goods without Shri. And he wouldn't be missed anyway.

Peter H